Page 24 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

“Power.”

“But not yours, surely,” I scoff. “From where I’m sitting, you’re not powerful. And by my assessment, you never really were.”

He bristles at that one. The reaction makes me chuckle. Maybe there’s a little dignity in the son of a bitch after all. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

“No? And why is that?”

“Because of the people I work for.”

I smile. “Say the name.”

“The powers that be!”

I snort. “Fuck you. I don’t want to hear that made-up voodoo horseshit. Say therealname.”

He shakes his head, suddenly cowed. That pushes me over the edge.

With a roar, I leap up, throw my seat aside, and pounce on him. I jam a fist into Josiah’s stomach, right where I stabbed him not too long ago. He bellows in pain as stitches rip open.

“Say it, motherfucker!” I bellow in his face. “Say it now!”

He screams, “Astra Tyrannis! Astra Tyrannis! Astra Tyrannis!”

I sigh and release him. “That’s what I thought,” I murmur. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

I pick up my chair and set it back in front of Father Josiah. He’s panting as the pain finishes surging through his body. Fresh blood trickles onto his thighs.

“Now,” I add, “I’ve got just a few more questions for you, Father.”

7

Elyssa

“Charity?”

I can see her through the thin, gauzy veil that separates us—but just barely. The filmy curtain looks like running water, but every time I try and pass through it, I’m shoved back by a force that’s impossible to resist.

Her silhouette crumples in disappointment.

“Charity!” I call again with rising panic as she turns her back on me.

She’s standing over there, looking off into the distance like she’s searching for someone. Like she might leave any moment.

She can’t go. I have so much I want to tell her.

“Charity, please,” I beg through the unforgiving veil. “I need you.”

She glances back over her shoulder. I realize then that she’s crying. “Youneedme?” she asks in disbelief. “Where were you whenIneededyou?”

A lump forms in my throat and I realize how much I relied on her. She was my constant. My teacher. My friend.

And I failed her.

“I’m sorry…”

“‘Sorry’?” she scoffs without really looking at me. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t help me now. ‘Sorry’ won’t bring me back to life.”

“I know; I just—”

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